


Toys Are Us

by NorroenDyrd



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Awkward Flirting, Awkwardness, Bittersweet, Chantry Boom, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Memories, Post-All That Remains, Silly, Some Humor, Stuffed Toys, Team Bonding, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 06:26:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12248808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: Hawke and her little brother sew some stuffed toys for the companions, and these seemingly silly little things remain by their side through thick and thin.





	Toys Are Us

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes about the Hawke in this story:
> 
> She is based on my female mage Hawke Elissa, who has a diplomatic personality and specializes in healing and frost magic. She supports her fellow mages, friendmances Fenris, and has 100% friendship with all her other companions, although she was quite shocked by Anders' actions at the Chantry (I chose the 'Condemned Anders' option in the Keep when importing her into Inquisition), and sent him away because she needed time to process what had happened (and she handled herself quite well on her own as the party's only healer during the final battle). She will forgive him eventually, because she is that sort of person. In my actual game, Carver died on the Deep Roads (because again, Elissa was her party's only healer and Anders wasn't there to make him a Grey Warden); but I changed the story around so that he lives on as a Templar and joins the Inquisition.
> 
> Furthermore, my DA II games seemed to suffer from a sort of bug where Merrill both keeps and smashes her Eluvian; I chose to have her smash it in this story for more feelz.

It is probably far too early in the morning then Fenris leaves the mansion behind and makes his way up and down the countless stairways and winding alleys underneath the flapping, faded red banners, until he finds himself standing in front of a creaky, half-unhinged door, with a lopsided imitation of the Amell crest smeared over it (he and that Merrill girl were there with the Hawkes when Gamlen, drunk and bitter after the confrontation over the slavers in the family manor, dipped his hand into a bucket of paint he must have pilfered somewhere, drew the thing across the rotting wood, with a slurred and nasally 'Happy now?').  
  
The street is just filling up with light: the walls of the buildings are still shaded a bluish grey, with a red-gold fringe along the top. For as far as he can look back, Fenris has not properly paid attention to how vibrant the colours of the sky were at this time of day; to him, the shift between dusk and dawn has rarely been more than a sign that it is time to roll up his makeshift camp and go on running. But Hawke - Hawke pays attention to such things... Probably because she has lived a happy enough life to allow herself the luxury of pausing and gazing about her, her eyes seeming even more huge and deep-blue than ever. And... And somehow, her sincere wonderment is contagious; Merrill was first to succumb to it, naturally - but Fenris, too, cannot deny a peculiar tingle tickling at his lips whenever Hawke stops in her tracks to point out a particularly fluffy cloud to her companions. The sky  _is_  pleasing to look at, especially for the eyes that are used to taking in the grizzly palette of shadows and blood, and this morning, he indulges in throwing back his head and studying its shades for a bit, before he knocks at Hawke’s door.  
  
Yes, it definitely is too early to call on her - but he simply could not wait any longer, the restless feeling of wandering the vast, murky mansion having come unsettlingly close to strangling him. He needs to be out there, doing jobs around the city with Hawke and the others, helping collect money for that expedition of theirs... Filling yet another day with something other than glances over his shoulder and visions of his own hands, dripping red with Tevinter blood.  
  
After a sequence of knocks of varying length and volume (apparently, without intending to, Fenris turned them in the tune of that 'dirty shanty' Merrill tried to learn last night in the Hanged man, much to Isabela's amusement and the exasperation of sensible adults), Hawke finally comes out, wearing a long night shirt (which looks bafflingly fresh for her living conditions), her face flushed, her silvery-blonde, frost magic-touched hair matted into a frizzy ball, and her eyes still half-closed.  
  
'Fenris?' she gasps, clearing her gaze with rapid blinks. 'What... What's wrong? Have the slavers found you? Do we need to...'  
  
'No, I was just thinking we could head out to the Wounded Coast... hunt some bandits... Wait, what is that?'  
  
Fenris' voice suddenly trails off - and, being a bit taller than Hawke, he cranes his neck to take a better look at the curious... object she is holding under her arm.   
  
He has never seen the likes of it before; since it bears a likeness of something with four discernible limbs, Fenris' first thought - a sharp and painful stab through the gut - is that it might be an effigy of some kind, an object of dark magic. Could it be, he tells himself, his heart sinking into a terrible tide of cold - could it be that he misplaced his trust in Hawke? That Hawke, with her sincere eyes and open smile and that gentle laugh that somehow manages to make him feel a soft sort of warmth around his throat and ears, has proved no better than his tormentors? That even here, in her company, where he thought he could let his guard down for a moment, there is hidden danger lurking? Could it be that...  
  
'Oh, sorry; it must seem childish to you,' Hawke blurts out, trying to hide whatever she is holding but, in her awkwardness, only exposing it more.   
  
Fenris can see now that it is unlikely to be a blood mage's tool: it appears to be a very simplistic imitation of a rabbit, sewn out of blue cloth, with long, floppy ears and beads for eyes.  
  
'Is that... A toy?' Fenris asks with quiet incredulity while Hawke ushers him in, reaching out with one finger to touch the rabbit's nose.  
  
He has heard mentions of these on occasion - handcrafted copies of people and animals, for children to entertain themselves with - but has not had the chance to see one so up close. He has no memories of his own childhood, but he doubts his family - if he even had any - could afford to get toys for him; and the youngest of the Fog Warriors that he met passed the time by training with wooden practice weapons.   
  
Hawke must have read some of that in his eyes - he has started noticing that, despite the instinct that was beaten into him during the many years of slavery, he does not avert his eyes quite the very moment she looks at him.  
  
The very next sound she makes is a very soft, flustered 'Oh!'.  
  
'You... You probably have never had a stuffed animal, have you?'  
  
'Well, it's not like he's gonna be getting one now!' Gamlen grouses, shuffling by in the background and scratching his groin ferociously. 'He may be a knife-eared noodle, but at least he's a grown-arse man... Sort of. Men don't snuggle with plush critters'.  
  
'Stop insulting our guest, will you?' Carver cuts in, also bleary-eyed and dishevelled from sleep, with his ears turning a deeper shade of crimson as he speaks. 'Having a stuffed animal can be very comforting... and... And it's not like Ser Honeytums and Neigh-Neigh take up a lot of space in your hovel!'  
  
'Set Honeytums is Carver's bear,' Hawke explains, clearing some space on the lower bunk for Fenris to sit and shuffling off to find something edible for him. 'And Neigh-Neigh...'  
  
She swallows and looks down at her feet.  
  
'Neigh-Neigh is a plush pony that Papa made for Bethany. We salvaged these toys when we fled Lothering... My bunny narrowly escaped darkspawn claw marks. They just have... so many memories linked to them'.  
  
'Memories,' Fenris echoes wistfully, picking up the cloth rabbit that Hawke set down by his side before going to play hostess.  
  
It must be a bittersweet feeling, to carry around a seemingly useless, silly household object, a child's plaything - not daring to part with it, even if you might have outgrown your games, because there are so many thoughts and dreams woven into this fraying fabric... So many that your toy becomes a part of you - something of your very own.  
  
'Hey, we could make you a stuffed toy, too, if you like,' Hawke suggests genially, as she returns with a wretched-looking semblance of a sandwich on a chipped plate. 'Make that cold dreary mansion a little bit cozier. Of course, I will have to ask Mother and Carver to help out... Since I have never been too good at sewing, while Carver had to learn to stitch things up when he went to the army... Unless...'  
  
She looks up at him, a tiny twinkle of mischief appearing in her eyes. This does not happen often, and when it does, then it somehow always is in Fenris' presence.  
  
'Unless you do not want to ruin your broody warrior reputation'.  
  
'I can still brood fairly well while holding a stuffed animal, I think,' Fenris smirks, unexpectedly beginning to feel just as giddy as when, during their very first meeting, Hawke blurted out a clumsily worded compliment and then tried to hide behind her dwarf friend's back (how is that even possible?) with a faint 'Oh no, I just flirted!'.  
  
'So what is it going to be?' Carver says, his voice pointedly loud and impatient, as the gaze exchanged by his sister and Fenris must have gotten far from appropriate.  
  
'Do you want a bear or...'  
  
Fenris thinks for a moment, then nods to himself, and says, almost under his breath,  
  
'A moth. If that is possible... I rather like the idea of a plush moth. As I recall, there were big, soft ones on Seheron; they would often beat their wings against a brightly lit lantern in the night... A fitting companion for someone living in the dark'.  
  
  
For the next few days, Hawke and her brother become completely absorbed by their little project, scouring the market stalls all across Hightown and Lowtown like their namesake birds, in search for the right materials. When out in the street, trudging among the laden stalls and slouching his shoulders in order not to hit anything with his head, Carver is more sullen than usual, torn between a bit of floating joy over taking the lead from his sister at least in something, and the uncomfortable realization that this 'something' is not exactly a manly, warrior-like pursuit - but when the two siblings get home, he takes to wielding the needle and thread with the same ferocity as when he cleaves the heads off some ruffians' shoulders with a greatsword. Only this time, his 'weapon' is used for creation, not destruction; for wielding the sort of magic that his sister cannot quite muster.   
  
Fenris is not present at these sewing sessions, for Hawke wants to make the emergence of the moth from its cocoon of mismatched rags and ribbons a pleasant surprise for him - but sometimes, when she comes to visit him in his mansion and they talk about their day, she lets it slip how happy she is to watch Carver, and the pupils in her blue eyes almost vanish amidst sparkles of joy... Which, had he been a different man, not branded and warped and remoulded out of shattered pieces, Fenris would have enjoyed watching for as long as he willed.   
  
  
The Hawkes manage to keep what they are up to a secret from the rest of the team for a short while, which is much appreciated by Fenris (almost none of the other Kirkwall misfits make him feel quite as much at ease as Hawke, so he is not certain that he will be too thrilled if they were to know about his soon-to-be moth friend). But then Merrill notices the slivers of white and grey fabric on Carver's shirt one night when they are all gathered together at the Hanged Man and, edging closer to brush them off, asks him excitedly, her lips stretching out into a little tube,  
  
'Ooooh, are you sewing something... What is this floor?'  
  
And Carver, glaringly red, all signs of sentience having vanished from his eyes at Merrill's touch, blurts out,  
  
'We are making a stuffed toy! For... For someone!'  
  
Well, at least he did not name any names. Merrill would have made such a fuss over Fenris if he had.  
  
But even without the particulars, the little blood mage gets as exuberantly joyful as a squirrel that has chewed on coffee beans.  
  
'That is so lovely!' she sings, the dancing candlelight making her face appear to glow.   
  
'Some da'len in my clan had toy animals, but they were mostly carved from wood - not fit for snuggling under the blanket! Oh, if you and Hawke hadn't been so kind to me already, I would perhaps have hoped that you might... But I shouldn't, should I? I have been using you too much as it is...'  
  
'Hush, Merrill, you have not been using us,' Hawke says, sounding almost scared. 'We would be happy to make a stuffed animal for each of you! I think I have been getting... kind of... better at sewing, so I'll pull my weight more! Though Carver will still be the mastermind, of course! It will be fun!'  
  
'Really, Hawke, what sort of tomfoolery is this?!' Aveline exclaims, trying to look appalled. 'I did not come here to have my previous few hours of leave wasted on some childish nonsense! We are all adults here!'  
  
'Come on, big girl, stuffed animals make everything better,' Isabela chuckles, giving her a playful fistbump in the forearm. 'Especially if they are being handed out for free by two sweet things like our Hawkes!'  
  
'You will probably ask for yours to have an exaggerated... you know what...' Aveline glares at her.   
  
'You said it, not me,' Isabela retorts nonchalantly, in between swigs of liquor. 'No, I think a parrot would be snazzy. And Kitten here will finally leave me be with all the questions about why I don't have a parrot, won't you?'  
  
  
And so it comes to pass that, after many long evenings, full of frustrated outcries from Carver and soothing murmurs from Hawke as she magically patches up her scowling brother's pricked finger, each member of the unlikely crew of Kirkwall companions ends up with a stuffed animal. Some of them, like Merrill, fall in love with the thing immediately, and squish it in a tight hug, spinning round and round; others, like Aveline, initially scoff and pretend to be exasperated by stooping down to a child's level, but still come to love their little stuffed toy. And all of them carry their plush animals through thick and thin.  
  
Carver, the awkward, snappish boy who is the backbone of the plush mission, holds on both to his chubby bear and to his sister's blunt-nosed pony with thick tassel for a tail and mane. Sometimes, late at night, he rests in bed on his stomach, and lays the brave Ser Honeytums and his loyal companion Neigh-Neigh side by side on the pillow, their faded colours looking paler than ever in the square of moonlight, and remembers the adventures these two used to have on the long, golden summer evenings, when the grass was so tall and crispy fresh and the air smelled of apples and bread rather than rotting fish and acrid smoke. Neigh-Neigh will never gallop through that grass again, and Honeytums has his work cut out for him, because the bunny with the floppy ears is often too soft, too meek, getting everyone dragged into cheery games when there is darkness crawling in from all corners. And someone has to step up; someone has to be the knight and the protector.  
  
When all news from the Deep Roads stops, and Mother starts to get used to the thought that she will mourn two daughters instead of one, Carver cannot but bring his stuffed toy with him when he leaves for the Gallows. He grabs the wrong one by accident, the preparations being too hectic - but somehow, it fits even better. Ser Honeytums may have enacted the tales of brave knights and heroes, but Neigh-Neigh, with his round little snout and googly eyes, is the reminder of a sister that Carver lost, a promise to do right by her and every other mage, becoming a hero that stands on his own.   
  
He does not even take his sister's plush out of its hiding place, too wary of the senior Templars that might do Maker knows what to him if they discover signs of softness - but a single brush of his fingers against the bulge under his pancake-flat mattress is enough to help him brace himself for another day to come. He makes the same brushing movement against his backpack when, reunited with his other sister, he stands against Meredith. Because yes, he takes Neigh-Neigh to the final battle too.  
  
And while Neigh-Neigh and Carver do their Templar duty, the lonesome Honeytums remains in Gamlen's Lowtown shack, sprawled listlessly over an empty pillow. Whenever Hawke comes in to check on Gamlen, and to make yet another attempt at settling things between him and Charade, he grumbles about the 'dirty old thing' sometimes - but neither throws it away nor offers Hawke to take it with her. And then, when the day comes, that black day when the girl, her face swollen and blotchy, her hair matted into a rock-hard braid that she must not have undone for days, begs him to move into the Amell estate, 'because it is so empty now' - then, he takes the stupid round-bellied bear with him, and sits down on the floor next to an impeccably well-made bed in Leandra's room, and holds the stuffed toy close... Because it is the only thing other than him that is wrinkled and coarse and dirty, amid all these pristinely white sheets on the furniture and the polished floorboards and the smell of whatever potion the Orana girl uses to clean. Because it is like an anchor, keeping him in place, saving him from drowning in all the whiteness. He sits like this for Andraste knows how long, an unshaven, unwashed, slightly hungover old man, clutching a child's toy and crying noiselessly, for the first time in many years.   
  
On a brighter note, Isabela does get her parrot, made out of a patchwork of many-coloured rags and with a beak sewn out of a yellow stocking that the merry team of troublemakers found on the floor of the Blooming Rose and that no-one came to claim. She often puts on little acts (mostly for Merrill's benefit), changing her voice to a hoary croak and pretending that her parrot is saying things that typical pirates would say, like 'Arrr, shiver me timbers!', and then responding to it in her normal voice, with a roll of her eyes,  
  
'You know, you dumb bird, you are not making a lick of sense'.  
  
But on one occasion it is Hawke who has to do the play-acting. Quietly resolute, she sits down next to an unusually reserved, despondent Isabela (of course managing to pinch her messy hair against the bar counter with her own elbow in the process), snatches the stuffed toy bird that the pirate has been twirling idly in her hands, and caws,  
  
'Isabela is not a treacherous snake! Isabela is a friend!'  
  
Hawke repeats this over and over again, till Isabela has to perk up, her jewellery jangling and quivering like clusters of ripe golden berries hanging off an autumn tree, and to smack Hawke a little to make her stop, the sly grin returning to her face.  
  
They say that if you pick up Admiral Isabela's hat and burrow a little through all the ribbons and feathers that adorn it, you will find that very same patchwork parrot, attached firmly to this proud pirate headwear, as a constant companion and a memento of that softly smiling mage girl with silvery hair, who had the most fantastical knack for picking up bits of garbage and turning them into family. But, of course, no-one has ever put this legend of the parrot to test - a man on a ship needs his fingers, you know.  
  
Merrill has always loved Isabela's parrot - but she also loves her own stuffed friend, Mister Eyebrows. Carver has put extra hard effort into making him, choosing only the finest white plush... Which got coloured a blotty shade of lilac, because it accidentally got into the washtub together with Hawke's favourite purple robes. Carver almost despaired, kneeling in front of the tub in a picture of perfect anguish that belonged in the gallery of some Orlesian noble - but Merrill does not mind. Just as she does not mind the soft elongated appendages that Carver had sewn onto the plush critter's head. They were supposed to be antler - halla antler, for the perfect white halla - but as the Hawke siblings never did find any wiring to put in as support, the 'antler' have inevitably turned into droopy caterpillars that waggle before the plushie's eyes. Carver does not even dare mention that it is 'kind of... sort of a halla' when, flushed and sweaty as if he is carrying a miniature furnace underneath his clothing, he presents the toy to Merrill, for fear of insulting her people's customs. So, unknowing and still delighted to meet her new friend, Merrill announces, in between giggles, while she dances across her little room in an alienage hut, the toy cradled in her arms,  
  
'Mister Eyebrows! He looks like Mister Eyebrows is a perfect name for him! Look!'  
  
She stops and, sticking her tongue out with the effort, arranges the failed antler over the critter's eyes so that they form a scowling unibrow.  
  
'I am Fenris!' she says, in a deliberately deep voice. 'I am afraid to move the muscles of my face because it might crack!'  
  
And then, instantly, gasps a little and checks herself, stroking the would-be halla"'s plush back,  
  
'I... I did not come off as too mean-spirited, did I? That was not what I intended!'  
  
Since that moment, Merrill and Mister Eyebrows have been inseparable. She takes him everywhere with her, and gives him a hug after every battle, and closes his eyes with her hand when the duel between Hawke and the Arishok gets too much to bear - and most importantly, she wraps her arms around his squishy lilac tummy as she lays curled up on the floor of her alienage hut, the eluvian casting a long shadow over her, silent and dark and inscrutable. And in the very end, when those who she thought to be her friends and guardians, the Keeper and the wise spirit, tear each other apart, and her heart seems to lie bleeding among the pieces of shattered glass, she takes a deep breath and closes the hut's door behind her and, clutching one of Mister Eyebrows' four soft little legs, steps outside, where Hawke is waiting for her, her hair dripping with molten copper along the ends as she stands against the blaze of the setting sun.  
  
Hawke does not say anything when she greets her; all she has to offer is an embrace and a smile and a pat for Mister Eyebrows, while she holds her own trusty plush bunny under her arm. Side by side, the two young women, both tempted and tested and tempered by their magic, leave behind the broken mirror and step into the circle of watchful alienage da'len, who are waiting with baited breath for the lilac semi-halla and a blue bunny to act out stories for them. And from behind a street corner, a young Templar watches them with a small smile, his ears turning the same shade as the torn clouds in the evening sky (harbingers of a windy day to come) when Merrill notices him and gives him a wave.   
  
The exile from Starkhaven, who joins Hawke's little team for good in the midst of the brewing tensions with the Qunari, also uses his toy for amusing children. His plush is a mabari, for no particular reason other than Carver and Hawke trying to figure out how to use triangular patches on the toy's back to imitate kaddis. Hawke hands it to him almost immediately after meeting him, as a gesture of good will to ease his grief; and really, even though she has been making efforts to be more talkative and is no longer too shy to smile and laugh in the company of her friends, especially Fenris, Merrill and Varric, when it comes to strangers, it is far less daunting for Hawke to thrust a random object into their hands and then back away, as opposed to opening her mouth and saying... words...  
  
Sebastian is baffled by his gift at first, but quickly puts it to good use. The chubby little Fereldan dog, with patchwork war paint and different-coloured glassy eyes, one blue and the other green, becomes a very welcome sight for the street urchins taken in by the Chantry, who watch the antics the grown-up makes it enact with more than a few stifled snickers and enthusiastic elbow shoves at one another.   
  
One little Fereldan refugee, a scrawny red-haired girl with a gap between her teeth and pigtails sticking out at odd angles, becomes convinced that this stuffed puppy is just like Andraste's old mabari, 'the one in the song'. She is so adamant about it, and sounds so vehement when she tries to prove her theory to the other children, that Sebastian does not have the heart to object and to explain that this is just an apocryphal folk song, and the Chant never mentions any canine companions. Instead, he seizes this as an education opportunity, and, in addition to barking and leaping and comically bobbing his head, 'Andraste's mabari' starts teaching the Chantry orphans about being good and kind and following the tenets of the Maker... And also practical things, like reading and writing; in the latter case, the crowd of urchins is sometimes joined by a lanky white-haired elf, who somewhat sticks out ('like a sore thumb', he grumbles to himself), but begins to feel more relaxed when he is joined by a supportive blue-eyed mage.  
  
The mabari of Our Lady Andraste, the teacher and confidant and guardian of little orphaned children, is last seen when Sebastian lays it down on the smouldering ruins of the Chantry, its red-and-brown plush body standing out with almost blinding brightness against the black soot, and walks away, with his throat tight and hot, but not with the smoke, and his fingers that once held the toy trembling until Hawke catches at them and gives them a tender little squeeze.  
  
Aveline gets a mabari too, with an extra little twist in the form of a square patch under its upper lip, which has the words 'DON'T' sewn across it, in very wobbly, childish letters (the very own handiwork of Hawke, along with the diagonal dashes of thread over the dog's eyes, to indicate a stern frown). Aveline is quite embarrassed by it, and takes almost paranoid precautions to prevent the guardsmen under her command from learning the terrible truth... that their captain keeps a little toy doggy in her desk drawer! Which she absolutely does, taking the plush out when she is alone and looking into its beady eyes with a small shake of her head.  
  
Guardsman Donnic comes in unannounced one day, with an 'urgent report for the captain', just as Aveline is fiddling with the reproachful mabari. With more finesse than she has ever exercised in the heat of battle, Aveline let's the plush fall on the floor, whips around full circle, and kicks hard at the hapless toy animal with her heel, pushing it deep under the desk. She hears out Donnic's report terse as a bow string; and the instant he is out of the room, she drops down on her knees with a frustrated outcry and thrusts her arm underneath the desk almost up to the elbow, groping for the plushie. Thankfully, Donnic does not get into his head that he has to turn back and poke in again with some additional remark, or else he would have witnessed a most embarrassing sight, leading to a disastrous fiasco of the... show of appreciation that Aveline has planned for him, before it even truly began... And Isabela would never have lived this down.  
  
It is not until they become a couple (after that endless chase after bandits that the irresponsible gang of quasi-professional Kirkwall protectors cannot remember without a chortle) that Aveline admits to Donnic that she has a little plush companion. Uncertain how or where to find the words for articulating that she, a grown woman and keeper of the law, secretly carries around a toy mabari, she just takes it out of her pack when they get back from duty, places it before Donnic, and blurts out,  
  
'It's... It's the thing that I have'.  
  
'Oh!' Donnic responds with a degree of enthusiasm that utterly takes Aveline by surprise. 'It has the Don't sign - from Varric's jokes! Fenris told me about it during our card games!'  
  
For a while, Aveline's attention is diverted to what she assumes to be an illicit gambling circle among her friends - and when she is done scolding, Donnic has already managed to tuck the plushie in on her side of their bed.  
  
To contrast Sebastian and Aveline's plush hounds, Anders' stuffed companions is a cat. Of course it is - it never could have been anything else, not after Hawke heard his stories about the pet he used to have when he was with the Grey Wardens. Of course, this round stuffed thing, with its oval reddish patch of a nose and foot pads that are just black stitches along dirty-white stubs, is not a close match for Ser Pounce-a-Lot, but the children who come into the clinic find it cute, and even hold on to it, eyes half-closed and little fingers sinking into the matted faux fur, while the healer works his magic to ease their pain. Anders himself often pets the plush cat in the evenings, his gaze growing blank and distant, as both he and Justice recall the real, perky, purring ginger pet that served as inspiration for this toy, frolicking in the grass or playing with a bit of twine dangled around by Sigrun, or delicately pushing a pewter mug towards a table's edge and then watching it smash, ears pricked up curiously, amidst Oghren's angry yells. It was a simpler time.  
  
But this time, the here and now, grows ever grimmer, and when the blue flame grows too much to bear, two hands, beneath the cloak of black feathers, throw the plush cat away. Because nothing matters any more but... what has to be done, and any signs of softness, any unnecessary distractions must be eliminated. Especially those provided by Hawke - who could have been a true champion of the cause, but instead gets mired up in searching for compromise where there is none to be had. And down into the stagnant pit goes her gift, beady eyes glinting reproachfully at Anders one last time before Justice pushes him to walk away. But the sewers drain into the sea - so maybe some day, the frothing, crashing tide will fling the discarded, soggy kitty plush onto a beach miles and miles away from Kirkwall, right at the feet of a haggard, bearded hermit, who has been tossed here by a tide of his own making, by the war that he has caused. And he will pick the little cat up and hug it to his chest, wet and filthy though it is, and remember the broken look on Hawke's face before she tossed the bared dagger onto the ground and told him in a small, uneven voice that he can have his life and may do whatever he wills with it – ‘just… please… please go away… for now’… And maybe wonder to himself how long this ‘for now’ will last.  
  
And Fenris - Fenris does get the chubby moth companion that he was promised, black and white and grey, with dappled patterns on its thickly stuffed wings. Its antennae, which are prone to drooping just as Mister Eyebrows' 'antler', are made out of strands of white fur that Fenris himself clipped off the robe of a slaver mage when he fell dead at his feet. A bit of a morbid addition, but at least that piece of scum turned out to be good for something. And as Carver said, as he and his sister presented their elven friend with their gift, this sort of turns Fenris' plush into a warrior that draws strength from vanquishing his enemies. He can live with that.  
  
Somehow, the moth does make the long nights at the mansion feel less empty, and holding onto it while he drifts off to light, uneasy sleep, brings Fenris the kind sensation of comfort that he is barely familiar with. This sensation is rooted in the same warmth that buds within him when he dares to stretch out his hand and brush Hawke's hair out of her eyes, so that he can gaze into them for a precious, breathless moment, until the habits of a slave kick in and he glances down, a subtle pulse rippling through the lyrium markings as his skin remembers the heavy touch of the hands that, as he knows, will no longer harm him, and yet still haunt him like the apparitions of the Fade.  
  
He values this warmth, this comfort so much that, after he drags a wild-haired, empty-eyed, half-suicidal Hawke back into her house on the night after her mother's death, he makes a detour to his mansion to grab his moth friend. Instead of scrambling for empty words of sympathy - which are not going to turn the rotting remnants of that shambling corpse into a living, breathing Leandra anyway - he thrusts the moth into Hawke's hands, and then picks up the floppy-eared bunny off her pillow, and adds it on top of the moth, so that Hawke turns into a cuddle bundle of human and plush limbs (that... that probably sounds more unsettling than it actually is). The bundle perches slouched on the bed's edge, and sways from side to side in silence; and when Hawke finally disentangles herself from the plushies and looks up at Fenris, thickly mumbling words of gratitude through a prolonged sniff, he holds her gaze without faltering, his heart feeling huge and scorching within his chest.  
  
Since that night, the plush moth and the plush bunny gradually take to spending far more time smooshed together in a single bed than they do apart. They travel with their owners into hiding, as they head out in a direction that is, alas, unknown; and it will be safe to bet that, as soon as the elf and the Champion have kids, those will be getting plushies of their own... Because the moth and the bunny are the prized possession of their parents.  
  
  
'That was... quite a lot of unnecessary information', Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast says stiffly, rubbing her gauntlet's finger against the corner of her eye, which she has done multiple times during Varric's plush toy epic ('Lots of dust notes in here,' she would comment, in a suspiciously apologetic tone).  
  
'You are stalling, aren't you, dwarf? Trying to distract me?'  
  
Varric shrugs, sliding a fraction of an inch lower in his stone chair.  
  
'Just trying to give you a general idea of what kind of person Hawke is,' he says idly. 'Plus more insight into her relationship with Fenris. Demand dictates supply and all that. Don't try to lay blame on me if you begin salivating every time they lay eyes on each other'.  
  
'I... I do not salivate!' the Seeker chokes, raising up her fists and giving them a little outraged shake. 'This is ridiculous! Get back to what's important!'  
  
'Aww, but I haven't told you about my own plushie yet,' Varric points out, as he dips his hand under his vest and brings out an almost perfectly spherical stuffed toy owl, with tiny wings sewn to its sides and a pair of huge embroidered yellow eyes.  
  
'Your people paid the old girl a lot of attention when they searched me,' Varric says with a chuckle, stroking the owl's head. 'First they thought it was a disguised smoke bomb or something. Good on them that they did not try to rip her open, or else they would have parted with a few hairy jewels. Yes, this lovely thing has been a joy to keep around on my writing desk and to chat with when inspiration runs dry. She's no match for Bianca, of course - but a good companion, nonetheless'.  
  
When Varric makes a pause, he spends a brief while scrutinizing the Seeker with his slyly narrowed eyes - and in the end, finishes the conversation without any mentions of how he cuddled his owl when recovering from the whole Bartrand mess, and how, on many sleepless nights when his beloved Kirkwall seemed to drift further and further up the proverbial shit creek, he would stared into the silky-textured yellow eyes in search for at least some shadow of comfort... Which he did find, sort of, because it is hard to keep frowning when you've got a chubby tiny-winged birdie looking back at you.  
  
The Seeker keeps stewing throughout the remainder of their conversation, ostensibly revolted by the gall of the dwarf who, instead of unveiling some hidden secret of the Kirkwall rebellion, insisted on talking about stuffed animals. But Varric has a keen eye, and there is something entirely different than revulsion that he reads in his interrogator's gaze. And many, many weeks later, when the Inquisition will have already settled in Skyhold, he will have a most curious conversation with the promising young Templar who ran to the Herald's banner from beneath the Lord Seeker's red shadow.  
  
'So... Corypheus has gotten free somehow, and is on a quest to take over the world,' the Templar will say, gazing out at the milky clouds churning at the bottom of the fortress's outer walls. 'And I bet the Inquisition will try to get a hold of my sister again'.  
  
'You sound even less cheery than usual, Junior,' Varric will tease him. 'Afraid that she will be grabbing all the glory for herself again?'  
  
'What?! No! All that I am afraid of is putting a pregnant woman into danger!' the Templar will cry out - to which Varric will sigh and hang his head.  
  
'Yeah, I wasn't saying that in full earnestness... I don't want her to risk her lufe any more than you do. But either way, whether or not they leave your big sis alone or not, the Seeker is going to be pretty mad at me... So I kind of need you to do me a favour'.  
  
'Oh? What sort of favour?'  
  
'Make the Seeker a stuffed animal'.


End file.
